vacillate—
by arsenous elation
Summary: Sif learns to look the other way. —Sif, Loki/Sigyn—


A/N: This piece is the sloughed-off bulk of AMARANTHINE (which can be found in my AO3 account) before the thing was turned into a script/dialogue format. So, yes. This makes no sense whatsoever, I know. I love Sif to death but no matter how I write her, she just comes out …not-Sif.

* * *

_With this wine your union is blessed. _

An itch grows at the back of Sif's neck as she watches the matrimony. Loki and Sigyn exchange vows in a slow synchronized manner. Two convoluted actors fooling everyone in the hall.

It prickles at the back of her throat, crawling, fills the insides of her lungs burn with anger. She looks at everyone, waiting if they have realized the lie. They do not see the glint in Loki's green eyes, watching his bride almost-challengingly. They do not see the sharpness of Sigyn's smile.

_With this thread your fates are bound_.

The people only applaud, smile and rejoice at the union of Loki and Sigyn, prince and squire.  
(speak up, speak up, tell him—)

Only (no)one sees:  
They make fools out of us all.

—l—

_Coward._  
The word is out of her mouth even before Sif can stop herself. Sigyn suddenly stops in her stride, making Sif almost expect the woman to retaliate with the bow in her hand.

Sigyn looks over her shoulder, throwing her a glance that was both unreadable and contemptuous. It strangely reminds Sif of Loki.

_Between the two of us, who is the real coward? _Sigyn's contralto breaks the terse silence, her words bouncing off the golden walls and hits Sif right in the gut.

—l—

"Do you love her?"

The question is laconic, crisp, and _oh_ so deceptively affable. Sif almost gags at the smoothness of her words, detests the cloying allure of falsification.

Loki does not look up from his book._ "_Who, Sif?_" _he asks back, disinterested.

A rustle of a page; annoyance almost makes her fists slip. Instead, she strains her patience and watches Loki carefully, waits for a trick, a hint, a betrayal in his features.

"You know damn well who."

Loki suddenly stills. He spares her a glance, green eyes now curious making Sif wonder if she is caught. And maybe she is.

His lips part, about to say something—  
Mischief lights his eyes.

"Who?"

Fuming, Sif turns and walks away, her face masked into vacuity. There is no need for him to reply; he would never admit it anyway, because the silver-tongued Loki is incapable of sincerity, but Sif knows. Sif knows the answer is—

—l—

With her head bowed, Sigyn starts crying.

A brief look of panic overtakes Loki's aristocratic features and he steps forward, making show of his unharmed self. Sigyn's sobs become audible, bouncing and echoing off the cavernous walls.

"Sigyn, it's only a harmless jest." He tries to placate, unsure of how to handle the situation. "I'm fine."

Sigyn cries louder, covering her eyes in a childish manner. Loki closes the distance between them, half-agitated, half-amused. Sif has to admit she has never seen the prince so discomposed.

"It's harmless, see?" he takes Sigyn's hands away from her face, places them on his chest to prove it, forcing her to look upon him, "It's harmless."

Sif sees the utter look of helplessness in Sigyn's face before it disappears behind Loki's coat as she pulls him into her embrace.

"I'm so sorry," his voice susurrates. His hand slowly and gingerly coming up to rest on Sigyn's head.

…

Somewhere, their lie has become the truth.  
Sif learns to look the other way.

—l—

_If she was not betrothed to you, would you still have given your heart?_

The truth breaks her and she receives it as a true warrior should.

I_f you have never met her, would you have loved me instead?_

—l—

After Loki's fall:

"Did you love him?"

Sigyn's voice is misanthropic. Sif's mouth curls into a smile.

"Do you?"

(Gathering a sea of sang-froid that is rare among the Æsir, Sif turns and shuts the door behind her.)

—l—

Now Sif looks at the mirror before her. Stares at the stranger in her place. The word sifts in her throat, dies in her mouth—coats Sif's tongue in sour bile.

_Coward._


End file.
